Portland Community College | Portland, Oregon

I pass people I recognize on the train sometimes.
I¡¯m never sure how to feel about that. I knew you a lifetime ago; we chatted last week. It¡¯s a selfish kind of love to know someone only in that way.
I¡¯ve never met you, but for a single moment in January, our eyes met and you waved right before I could look away.
I never learned your name, but we¡¯ve passed each other hundreds of times.

The sun sets differently on the train. I think it¡¯s because you don¡¯t choose it.
Everywhere else travel is a constant process of choices. There, on the train there¡¯s nowhere to reach, and no way to get there faster. We¡¯re already in motion. I wake up, and I run out the door to get to work. I can taste the urgency in the morning air of the city. I swap breath for the exhaust of a car that carries a person as jittery as me.

People hate ¡®sonder¡¯ now, and it makes me sad.
For someone who has just reached a newfound understanding of everyone else's lives, it seems cruel for that same ¡®everyone else¡¯ to pretend this newfound... Read full post ?

Bundled browsers sip sweet bitter brew, scents of smoke and chocolate,
crowds sample speared slices of crisp pink spheres, stored since September,
feathery fronds of fragrant foliage fill bins and bags and carts and bellies.

Bright red bunches of swollen roots, celadon stacks of threaded stalks,
variegated hibernal venation, gleaming white tap roots, purple petioles,
paper-wrapped bulbs contain sulfurous layers, destined for saut¨¦ed silkiness.

Foraged forest treasures, tube-shaped and dome-capped, soft-toothed and earthy,
sealed plastic packets of sea life and ruminants, stored in ice-packed coolers,
clear glass jars filled with bubbling ferments, salted cabbage and peppers.

Lines form for eggs and chiles and cured meats wrapped in hot blistered shells,
casings stuffed with fatty ground meats and aromatics, sizzling on blackened grates,
flakey baked layers of flour and butter, piped full of fruits and sweetened cream.

Babies in fancy strollers, dogs in quilted vests, old ladies in plastic raincoats,
students with tattoos, chefs with soft-sided wagons, peddler of painted rocks,
honeys huddle on slightly damp wooden slat benches, taking it all in.

Rest Stop: Newton, no, Wayne, NJ, 2:41 am:

We had smoked the morning away joint by joint.

This morning slugged along, as did the rest of the day. We drove, and stopped at every Walmart and Burger King. We lived off one chicken sandwich at a time and free refills of coffee at every juncture. We must've hit about three or four Wal-Marts and five or so Burger Kings. It was all in a day¡¯s adventure to stay alive.

From Highway 30, we got into Philly after a two-and-a-half-day drive from Pittsburgh. Normally, this drive should take about three hours. I stopped at a church next to a turn-off on Hwy 30¨CGettysburg, a small town in PA, where the horses and carriages still roam the asphalt streets, and sorrows of one of America's most gruesome battles.

With the modern times rapidly rushing forward, the traditions of the past are still practiced to this day by the long line of descendants of those who keep Amish ways alive. The night before, I had slept in the car of a Walmart fifty feet away from a horse and buggy parking facility that resembled a stable¡ªnever have I seen such a thing. The... Read full post ?

A sharp voice cut through the wind. ¡°Come closer. We can¡¯t hear what you¡¯re saying.¡±

The boy moved slowly, feet dragging through the sand, hands kept deep in his pockets. He raised his voice as he drew near, but the wind swallowed it before it could reach the three older kids kneeling in a trench beneath the boardwalk¡ªfaces half hidden in shadow.

¡°We can¡¯t hear you!¡± one of them called out again, with growing impatience.

The boy spoke again, but the sound hardly carried. By the time he reached them, the group had already stubbed out their cigarettes in the sand. They moved cautiously, like they thought he might bring trouble with him.

¡°What is it?¡±

The boy¡¯s body was as taut as a wound spring. His eyes darted around the beach and over the boardwalk, as if someone or something might be watching.

¡°I need a light,¡± he said, louder this time, his voice trembling slightly.

The group exchanged glances¡ªa joke, surely? But the boy didn¡¯t flinch.

¡°What for?¡±

The boy said nothing, then dipped a hand into the pocket of his dark, worn jeans and drew something out. Holding it low, he cradled it like contraband. The older... Read full post ?

There are a lot of things in the US that surprise a foreigner, such as a cleaning product powered by another cleaning product; drive-through banking; the ban on Kinder Surprise; Fahrenheit and the imperial systems; and, for a person from a land of five months of winter, the concept of a Snow Day.

That being said, the most fascinating thing to me is an estate sale. I find myself constantly checking the websites that announce the dates, and if there¡¯s a good one coming up, it becomes the most exciting day of the week. I explain it to my friends back home in a morbid way¨C I say I am on a hunt for dead people¡¯s stuff.

I¡¯ve always loved a good sale. For a post-Soviet person, a brand name product has an almost magical status. My grandfather might believe that the ¡°Golden Billion¡± is plotting evil schemes to turn Russia into an oil pump and nothing more (I argue with him that the Russian government does so successfully by itself, but with no luck). Still he cherishes the American-made Levis he got at the fall of the Soviet Union and dresses like an Ivy League graduate, despite living in... Read full post ?